


Siren Call

by Wallissa



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: First Time, Frank Castle Is A Service Top, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, army days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25292350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: It’s just that he’s never been approached. That’s not how it works. There are no words to exchange or plans to plan – things simply happen.Frank get's an offer he doesn't expect but won't refuse, and when he realises that he's in over his head, it's already too late to turn back. Not that he's going to complain.(The sinking sun in a shabby hotel room, roses and sandalwood, stinging wrists and soft mouths, a painfully gorgeous man)
Relationships: Frank Castle/Billy Russo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	Siren Call

Russo tilts his head back and finishes the last of his drink in one impressive swig. Then he puts his glass down, a click on discoloured, sticky wood, and leans into Frank’s space. “You want to fuck?”

It’s so unexpected that Frank puts down his own glass. “Huh?,” he says, thinking he’s misheard. It’s loud in here, scraps of mismatched conversations in tobacco-drenched air, languages mingling. Rollins to his left is doing a dramatic retelling of his last trip home in a liquor-loud voice and really, it wouldn’t be surprising if –

Russo leans in a little more. The collar of his shirt drops a little with the move, shadows spilling down his sternum. “I said – do you want to fuck?” He’s not raising his voice, but he’s not whispering, either. 

Frank blinks. He catches the glint of his dog tags, a hint of silver in the dark. 

“What, now?” Judging by the condition of the table, the price he paid for his lukewarm beer, the sticky floors, it’s fair to assume that the toilets are positively horrid. Hardly the environment he’d pick himself, but – 

Russo scrunches up his nose, shakes his head. “Damn, don’t get ahead of yourself. You said you had a weekend off some time in late July, right?”

Frank blinks through the mist of beer clouding his vision, not entirely sure what’s going on. “Yeah.”

“So what about a Weekend, then? Third of the month?”

“Yeah,” Frank repeats, then adds “Sounds good.”

“Perfect.” With that, Russo taps the sticky table top twice and gets up to get himself another drink. And that’s that.

~*~

Now, it’s not like Frank makes it a habit, but he’s fooled around before. When you’re with a fixed group of people every day, when your life depends on them and theirs depends on you, it’s inevitable that you get closer. Physical intimacy seems like the next step, something almost necessary. Knowing someone in that way, knowing how their head will tip back, how their brows furrow in pleasure. You become more attuned, you understand each other on another level.  
Apart from that, it’s a good stress relief. It’s a welcome change to be close to another person with no other intention than giving and receiving pleasure.

All in all, Frank thinks the Romans (or Greeks, or whoever) were onto something when they put lovers in their units.  
Not that that’s a term he’d use to describe his relations with the handful of men he’s done this with, of course. It’s nothing as serious as that. There are no expectations attached to any of this, it simply happens naturally.

Which is precisely what makes _this_ so weird.

He’s known of Russo for a while – hard not to, really – and in the last few months, they’ve seen a bit more of each other. They’re evenly matched, for all it’s worth, and work surprisingly well together. Frank hasn’t given it much thought, but he noticed that Russo’s been sticking around, a voice in his ear, a presence next to him during their quiet days as well. So it’s not like this is completely out of the blue, it’s not like Frank would refuse. (He has eyes, after all.)

It’s just that he’s never been approached. That’s not how it works. There are no words to exchange or plans to plan – things simply happen.

But that’s the thing – and Frank realises that after that night at the bar, when he starts watching Russo – with him, things _don’t_ happen.  
There’s that late-night, early-morning fatigue, warm hands and rough voices. There’s liquor-sloppy laughter and the scratch of a few days worth of stubble. There’s sparring, heat and muscle mass and pleasure-soaked adrenaline.  
But Russo doesn’t do any of it. He gets quiet when he’s tired, he knows how to handle his liquor. And Frank remembers Thomson, who laughed as he’d pushed Russo into the sand, all bravado and broad shoulders. How Russo’d flipped them, the crunch of Thomson’s nose, his jaw. Russo with his dark eyes, hands and face splattered in blood.

He doesn’t give anyone that kind of opening, doesn’t invite them in. So to think that he’d be this blunt about it – Frank doesn’t really know what to expect.

It could be a trap, of course. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Frank considers it, considers a dishonourable discharge. Considers the glint of Russo’s dog tags in the muted darkness of his shirt collar, silver on pale skin.

In the end, he slips condoms into his back pocket and leaves for the hotel. And that’s new, too. Place and time and that odd sense of excitement in the pit of his stomach. That last part, he chalks up to adrenaline. 

It’s just Russo, he reminds himself as he climbs the well-worn steps to the first floor. Peeling wallpaper, the scent of dusty carpets and dried flowers. Numbers painted on wooden doors, the paper Russo slipped him worn at the edged and creased in his hand. He knocks, feeling vaguely stupid.

Seeing Russo makes it better, somewhat. He’s familiar – the dark hair, the sharp cheekbones, the lashes, the shape of his mouth.

(Frank has been looking)

“Lock the door, will you?” 

Frank doesn’t want to turn away from him, but when Russo stops on his way to the window to raise his brow at him, he does anyway. There’s an emergency exit plan taped to the door, colours bleached out and tape yellowing. The lock turns with a slick sound.  
When he turns back around, Frank tries to focus on the room. Faded carpet, a wardrobe-like construction that’ll hold a suitcase and a few coats. An old TV, a tiny fridge, a whirring AC.

Russo by the open window, the afternoon sun drawing his profile in gold. He’s wearing jeans, a white shirt. On the windowsill, there’s a pack of cigarettes, a neon green lighter. No ashtray, no trace of smoke in the air.

Frank shifts and Russo returns his attention to him, not more than a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Come over.”

Embarrassingly, that’s enough to send a thrill down Frank’s spine. His shoes sink into the carpet, then he’s standing next to Russo, almost but not quite brushing against his arm. It’s warmer by the window, the heat and mingling scents of the outside world pushing in, but it’s made bearable by a slight breeze that brushes over him like a physical touch. His arm twitches.

He can almost feel the heat coming off Russo, can make out the faintest hint of his deodorant. They don’t come close unless it’s after a battle, but then, shoulders brushing, limbs heavy, the scent of sand, blood and adrenaline-sour sweat overpowers everything else. Russo won’t let anyone close unless there’s the cloying scent of violence involved.

Frank realises, quite suddenly, that he wants to know what Russo smells like. He turns his head away from the view of the back alley, not sure what he’d been meant to be looking at anyways. Brick walls and window shutters hardly compare to Russo, after all.

They’re closer than anticipated. Frank’s eyes catch on his collar bones. Despite the circumstances, he’s pale. Skin milk-soft where the rest of them have red wrists and necks, soldier’s tan. He catches Frank looking and amusement glints in his dark eyes. “You want to fuck?”

And Frank likes his voice anyways, a familiar drawl and a soft-melodious tone, but this is different. Slow-dripping sweetness, a slight purr.

“Yeah,” Frank says, surprising himself with how much he means it, how dry his throat is.

“Good.” Molasses, a pleasant shiver down Frank’s back. He’s turning towards Frank, torso just slightly angled away from the window. The air outside is warm and dry, the distant sound of conversation carries up to them. In the warm light, the creases in his white cotton shirt are traced in gold, honey stirred into cream. He leans in a little. “You got a girl?”

“Yeah.” Like this, Frank can almost make out the notes of whatever he’s wearing, something wood-spicy, a hint of sweetness. 

“Good for you. Try not to say her name, yeah?” His long fingers run through Frank’s hair, his voice is light and teasing. 

Frank could drown in this, spine melting at the gentle touch. The request, however, has him focusing his gaze again. “Why would I do that?”, he asks, bewildered. “Not like I don’t know who I’m with.”

There’s a slight flicker in dark eyes, a hint of something slipping. Then, the smile is back, the promise of glittering canines, and Billy leans in close enough for Frank to make out a hint of roses. “Good.”

It’s just then, for barely a second, that Frank has a peculiar feeling, a rush of something he would guess sailors feel when that gorgeous creature in the water wraps her cool-soft arms around their shoulders and pulls them in. The barest hint of the realisation that he’s in over his head.

Billy’s arms wrap around his shoulders and his mouth is almost unbearably soft. It’s chaste, curious, before Frank tilts his head and pushes in, deepening their kiss. Billy tastes like spearmint, his fingertips scratch through his buzzed hair. Electricity down his spine.

When he pulls back, he feels kiss-stupid already. Billy’s hands tighten in his hair and he drags his teeth over his lower lip, eyes hot on Frank. “I liked that,” he finally says, voice contemplative and velvet-soft. “Again.”

So Frank, feeling dizzy, leans in again. This time, he makes an effort to go slow, to feel the shape of Billy’s mouth, his hip bone in Frank’s palm. And he didn’t mean to touch him, doesn’t know whether it’s appreciated, but he finds that now that he’s doing it, he can’t pull away.

It must be alright, since Billy hums and pushes in, mouth soft and pliant, his body warm and solid through the layers of fabric separating them. This time, it’s him who pulls back, pink cheeks and a look in his eyes that Frank can’t quite place.

He thinks of sirens again, melodic enticement. Heat sizzles in his veins, sweet as cinnamon. His grip on Billy’s hip tightens.

There’s a flutter in Billy’s lashes, he inhales sharply. “You top?”

Not often. It rarely comes to that point. Cinnamon on his tongue, Billy warm and solid in his hands. “Yeah.” His voice is rough already.

Billy nods. His fingertips find their way back into the short part of Frank’s hair. In the golden afternoon, his black eyes turn to golden brown, melted chocolate. “You bring condoms?”

Frank realises that Billy forgot to tell him. And that can’t be pleasant, not for someone like him, all control and careful planning. It’s oddly flattering, Frank thinks, to make Billy forget things. 

“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t move to take his hands off him to prove it. “Can I touch you?”  
And they’re already touching, the cotton of Billy’s shirt is warm against his palm, but that’s not what he means. He doesn’t know how to ask for it, not used to that amount of conversation.

Billy huffs a laugh, gently tugging on Frank’s hair. “Sure, if you lose the shirt.”

It sends a thrill down his spine, the greed in Billy’s eyes, the lightness of his tone. Not willing to take a step away from him, he just leans back a little to pull the shirt over his head, then turns to throw it on one of the chairs by the minibar. Standard issue muddy green on murky grey.

Billy waits for him to turn around before he reaches out, fingertips in his hair again, then down to his neck. Frank carries tension there, they all do, but the warmth of Billy’s touch seeps through him, enough to make him melt. Along his collar bone, to his shoulders, then down to his biceps. 

Generally speaking, Frank knows he’s touch-starved, but he feels it now; the curious, gentle touch is enough to make him shiver. And it’s not like he hasn’t had hands on him before (or even lately, really), but there’s a peculiar note to the way Billy goes about it.  
He’s running his fingertips over Frank’s body like’s a piece of art he might be interested in purchasing, an object that’s caught his attention. He squeezes his biceps with curiosity and self-indulgence and Frank subconsciously straightens a little, muscles flexed as he reaches for him. “Can I-“

“Oh, sure.” Billy sounds almost distracted, but he steps closer, crowds into Frank’s space. 

Finally, Frank slips his hands underneath thin cotton to push his shirt up. Billy is warm under his fingertips, long lines of muscle, runway elegance and panther’s grace. His abs twitch under Frank’s touch and he makes a soft, greedy sound.

With a last squeeze to Frank’s chest that has his cheeks burning, Billy takes his hands off him. Frank begins to feel sorry about the loss, but just then Billy pulls his shirt over his head and throws it in the vague direction of Frank’s chair. Then – and it’s so quick that Frank barely has time to process it, to enjoy the sight of Billy’s milk-sweet skin – he’s crowds against Frank again and wraps his arms around his shoulders.

The touch of his bare skin is a shock. He’s warm, hard muscle and smooth skin, jungle cat grace and strength. When he tilts his head a little, his beard scratches over Frank’s freshly shaved cheek, his cheekbone. He exhales with a low, content hum. 

It’s not much - it’s barely anything, really – but Frank is _shaking_. Billy’s so close, his scent soaking through Frank’s brain. _Sun-warm skin, sandalwood, something warm, sweet, spicy. A hint of rose._ He can feel his thumbs digging into Billy’s hips but finds himself unable to loosen his grip.

Billy reaches down by running his palm down his arm again, giving his biceps another self-indulgent squeeze in passing, before slapping his wrist, _hard_. Nothing playful about it, the split-lip, broken glass kind of slap. “Not those kinds of marks.”

And yes, of course. Frank’s well aware that bruises like that could lead to all kinds of suspicions and rumours, but it’s never really been a problem before. Generally speaking, he’s good at keeping his touches discreet. But now, wrist stinging and a little stunned, Frank still can’t let go of him.

He gentles his touch, though, soothes the desire pulsing through him by running his hands up Billy’s sides. The dip of his waist, the hard lines of his abdomen, finally the outlines of his ribs.

At that, Billy makes a _sound_. The softest little exhale, just barely coloured by a soft sigh. It hits Frank like heavy-sweet red wine, making his head swim and his cheeks feel hot, his mouth dry. 

He tilts his head and presses his mouth to Billy’s throat in something that is more barely concealed greed than the faint curiosity he felt before. This is undeniably different from what he’s used to, the adrenaline-soaked pleasure and rough laughter paling in comparison to Billy’s warmth, his soft skin, his sandalwood and roses, his _unbearably_ sweet voice.

When Frank puts his mouth on Billy’s throat, it’s with the intentions of hearing that sound again. His fingers twitch with the effort of holding back, the need to properly bruise Billy up burning through him. But he manages to keep his mouth soft and open, the press of his teeth gentle.

Again, a soft exhale. A shiver runs through Billy and he tilts his head a little, relaxes his shoulders. It bares the long line of his throat for Frank, who’s half-deaf with the roar of his own blood in his ears. “No one’s gonna think a guy would suck on my throat of all things, man. Do your worst.” For all the nonchalance in his words, Billy’s voice is deep-rough and when Frank sucks a mark high up on his throat, he can feel the shiver that runs through him.

It’s enough to make his head spin. He gives his waist a gentle squeeze before slipping his hands into Billy’s back pockets, pulling him close. It makes him laugh, a soft sound dripping in honey.

“I like your hands, you know? But here, sit down. And lose those, actually.” He sneaks a hand between them, thumb on the button of Frank’s fly. For a moment, he seems to be tempted to give him more room, but there’s no way Frank’ll let go of him, so Billy undoes the button and unzips his fly for him, pushing at his waistband.  
What follows is a less than graceful choreography, made worse by Frank’s insistent hands. He has the presence of mind to be grateful that neither of them are wearing their boots, dusty sneakers hastily kicked to the side and quickly forgotten about.

It ends (and that’s another thing to be grateful for, Frank figures) with Billy on his lap, a solid weight. It’s somewhat awe-inspiring, really. Frank has to tilt his head back a little to look at him and his palms hover over Billy’s hips, not quite daring to touch him. Sirens, untouchably beautiful creatures with sharp teeth.

“You’re awfully tame all of a sudden,” Billy says lightly, playfully tugging on Frank’s hair. “One could almost be tempted to worry that you’re not into it.”

That’s laughable, considering Frank is practically burning up to put his arms around his waist and never letting go again. He speaks up, voice rough already. “I am.”

“Oh, I know.” There’s a spark of humour in Billy’s eyes then, mixed with a cockiness that’s too playful to be for show.

Frank can’t bite back a smile at this display, because damn if the confidence isn’t earned and _damn_ if it doesn’t burn through him like good whiskey, hot and intoxicating. 

“Oh?” He raises a brow. His palms finally find Billy’s thigh and he gives them a light squeeze. “Where’s that confidence coming from, huh? You’re the one who asked me.”

At that, Billy laughs, which is such an uncommon sight that Frank is momentarily taken aback by how gorgeous he looks, all glittering teeth and shiny eyes. “And you jumped the chance, didn’t you? Suggested the fucking bathroom, you fucking cretin. And besides –“ He leans in, sandalwood and sun-warm skin. “You’ve been asking for weeks, I just decided to come help you out with the semantics.”

At that, Frank tenses a little, heat seeping through his veins, fingertips digging into Billy’s thighs. His breath stutters a little.

“What, Castle, you think you’re subtle about it?” Billy’s lips brush his neck, just above his fluttering pulse. There’s still a playful note in his tone, but his voice is all velvet and honey. “I know you’ve been looking, you can drop the act. Just touch me, it’s fine.” Here, he tilts his head a little, brushing his lips against his jaw. “I like your eyes on me, you know? But I think I might like your hands even better.”

Frank’s head is spinning with how fast his blood is rushing south. He inhales sharply, fingers digging into Billy’s thighs before he catches himself and instead runs his palms up to his waist.

Billy is wearing black briefs, the waistband flat against his abs; a sight worthy of silk, Italian initials and glossy pages. If Frank had the presence of mind, he’d mention something of the kind. Instead, he just brushes his fingertips along his waistband, against the delicate skin. 

A shiver runs through Billy. He lets his head drop on Frank’s shoulder and Frank turns towards him, just enough to brush their lips together and feel his sigh against his mouth.

It’s a sweet sound, a tingle down Frank’s spine, and he dares to slip two fingers underneath the waistband, just enough to be able to feel his skin when he squeezes his hip.  
His other hand slips up to his chest and some men don’t like being touched there, but when he brushes his thumb over Billy’s nipple experimentally, Billy _moans_.

Frank’s cock throbs at the sound. Before he can recover, however, he realises that apparently, Billy has been holding back, too, because now he’s _moving_.  
His thighs tense around Frank’s hips and he’s arching his back. “Yeah,” he says against Frank’s mouth, close enough that he can feel the shape of his words, “that’s nice. Do that again.”

Frank tilts his chin up a little and catches his mouth for a proper kiss. Billy lets him, but when Frank brushes against his nipple again, his mouth falls open in a soft, half-swallowed moan. Frank can feel the shiver that goes through him and greed floods him. He tilts his head to align their lips again and lifts his second hand as well. Instead of brushing his thumbs against his nipple, though, he pinches.

Billy moans, _loudly_ , the sound only half-swallowed by their kiss. He arches up, grinds down, quicksilver spine, fluttering lashes. 

Frank feels dizzy with it, breathless. He wants to deepen their kiss, but instead pulls back to look at Billy. 

(Bad decision.)

Pink cheeks and bitten lips, glittering teeth and the beginning of a flush spilling down his chest. A flutter in his lashes, then he’s looking directly at him, eyes glazed and impossibly dark. A slight twitch around the mouth, almost a smile, then he grinds down again.

This time, it’s Frank who moans, vision blurring for a moment. He leans in as close as he can without having to take his hand off him and gently presses his fingertip against his nipple, feeling how hard it is before rolling it under the pad of his thumb. 

This time, he can see it, can watch the way Billy trembles, the soft shape of his mouth as he moans. He rolls his hips again, all grace and strength and Frank didn’t expect he’d be this _gorgeous_. He wants to put his mouth on him, taste his skin and feel his heartbeat against his tongue, but he can’t take his eyes off of him for long enough to even attempt any of it.

Instead, he spreads his thighs a little, forcing Billy to lean in, one arm slung around his shoulders to keep his balance. When he grinds down this time, the angle is better and Frank feels the hot outline of his cock.

He swallows thickly, trying to focus his gaze again. The line between Billy’s abs, the sharp-elegant cut of his collar bones, his long neck. Dark eyes, lashes heavy with pleasure. A feral creature, elegant and languid, selfishly self-indulgent. 

There’s that low, pleased hum again and his hand is flexing, squeezing Frank’s shoulders in time with the roll of his hips. He presses his chest into Frank’s palm and Frank blinks. Honey-sweet desire seeps through him and thoughts come slow, but he gets what Billy wants and pinches his nipple again. He’s rewarded with a low moan, another twitch of his hips, a flutter in his lashes. 

It’s not a show Billy’s putting on for him. That part is more than evident, even with the way Billy’s tipping his head back, even though he’s so breathtakingly beautiful, all grace with a rosy flush spilling down his chest. Frank is a mere observer, breathless as Billy’s lip twitches, glinting canines. 

Here, the scent of hot sand never quite leaves, the oppressive heat omnipresent even in a AC-whirring hotel room. Still, Frank can’t help but think of sirens again, of graceful, nonchalant danger. Pale skin and dark eyes, sharp teeth and strong arms. He thinks of helpless admirers and traces the curve of Billy’s spine with his fingertips, slips his palm under his waistband.

His palm comes to rests on Billy’s thigh, just beneath the curve of his arse, squeezing gently. “Let me – Can you lie down?”

“Hm?” Billy blinks, then focuses his gaze on Frank again. After the past moment as a silent, awe-struck observer, Frank really isn’t ready to be the centre of Billy’s attention. 

With the sinking sun, the light in the room is turning a warm-sweet shade of gold that traces his shoulders, the long lines of his throat and catches in Billy’s lashes, his hair. Ebony dripping in honey. 

Now that his eyes are set on Frank again, his palms follow the lines of his shoulders, squeezing gently. The effect as a whole is, unsurprisingly, entirely overwhelming. Frank swallows. Tries again. “On your back?”

“Oh, definitely.” His voice hardly more than a sigh. “I did say I liked your eyes on me, didn’t I?”

With Billy so pliant in his arms, sweet and warm and languid, it’s easy enough to turn them. Frank has the opportunity to slide his palm down Billy’s thigh, pushing his underwear down as he goes. His own briefs, he simply kicks off, hardly noticing where they fall. There’s too much to look at to focus on something so trivial.

Billy stretches on his back, sunk into a moment of genuine, private pleasure at the sensation of cool cotton against his skin. Like this, Frank thinks as he gently runs his fingertips up Billy’s thigh to watch him melt into the sheets, it’s hard to believe that he kills for a living. If it were up to him, he thinks, Billy’d never have to do a damn thing that’d disturb this state of languid pleasure. It’s a stupid thought, of course. Frank has seen him out there, tense shoulders and bared teeth, ash smeared on his face and blood on his hands.

But it’s hard to remember that now, when Frank’s fingertips brush over the delicate skin at the juncture of thigh and groin and he twitches, head tipping back, hand blindly reaching for him. Frank catches his wrist, kisses his pulse, the inside of his thigh.

Billy has a very pretty cock. Frank’s not surprised, he’s seen it before, but now it’s hard, flushed at the tip, nicely curving up towards his flat lower abs. His mouth waters, the need to suck him off almost a physical ache.

When he leans in, however, mouth soft and open, Billy tangles a hand in his hair and tugs him back. “I want to come with your cock inside me.”

Frank’s mind blanks. He makes some sort of noise, presses a kiss to Billy’s groin, tongue flat against his skin. Sandalwood again, a hint of rose. 

“I – “ Billy’s breath hitches, he gently kicks Frank’s side. “I mean it, come on.”

Just one little flick of his tongue. Just to feel the heat of Billy’s cock, to hear his breathless moan and feel his grip tighten in his hair. Salt on his tongue, he licks his lips and crawls up Billy’s body. 

Billy, who’s languid and sweet, breathing heavily. A shiver runs through him, his eyes are shimmering beneath heavy lashes.  
And yet, when Frank’s leaning over him, supporting his weight on one elbow (letting go of him entirely is simply too much to ask), he’s pulled down into another kiss. It’s all greed, Billy sucking on his tongue and pulling his hair, his thigh brushing Frank’s hip where it’s propped up an _finally_ , he can feel his bare cock brush against his own.

A shock, like lightening down his spine. Billy, completely ignoring the fact that Frank can hardly see straight, grinds up, then tilts his head to the side to speak, in turn giving him access to his throat. 

“There’s lube – “ his voice quivers, his thigh wraps around Frank’s hips, pulls him in. Heat, gold drenched skin, a sharp-sweet inhale. Frank sucks again, hard. “ _Fuck_ \- There’s lube on the bedside table.”

Frank doesn’t want to pull back, doesn’t want to pull away from the feeling of Billy’s cock throbbing against his hipbone, from the shiver that goes through him when Frank grinds against him. But his head is still echoing with Billy’s words - _your cock inside me_ \- and that’s what it takes to muster the strength to sit up.

When he’d first arrived, he hadn’t noticed the bottle, but it’s rather hard to miss now that he’s actually attempting to take in anything that’s not Billy. In the past, Frank’s made do with all kinds of more or less suited substitutes, but he’s glad Billy’s got the good stuff, the bottle a cool weight in his hand. The mere idea of using anything but the best is appalling. 

Before he can pop the cap, however, Billy takes the bottle from him. “You don’t have to. I’ll be faster.”

Just like earlier, Frank has half a thought, a vague impression. Something like confusion, mixed with a tad of anger on Billy’s behalf, a fierce and uncalled for protectiveness. There are words he could say, but he’s not sure Billy’d appreciate any of them, so he leans in when Billy sinks back into the pillows to kiss his jaw instead.

Billy hums softly, the sound loud in Frank’s ear, and tangles his left hand in Frank’s hair. For a moment, it’s just that, the heat of his body and the skin under his lips, but then he can feel Billy reach between them, and wishes he’d pulled back enough to watch. Billy’s knuckles brush Frank’s hipbone, slick-cool, then he twitches, inhales. Frank can’t see, but he can feel Billy’s throat working under his mouth, his thigh bumping against his hip. The soft sound of Billy’s inhale fills his head, the crunch of down when he lets his head fall back.

Frank knows it’s not smart to leave marks, no matter what Billy may say. But his pale throat bruises so prettily under his mouth, rose petals on milk, and he can’t pull back. When Billy starts shivering, Frank rests more weight on his elbow and leans in closer, until he can feel the brush of Billy’s arm whenever he moves. 

His work on Billy’s throat bleeds from worshipful into greedy. Frustration and desire and _teeth_. Billy gasps, hips twitching up. His thigh brushes against Frank’s cock, his own hard length presses against Frank’s hip and Frank’s thoughts stutter to a halt.

“Let me touch you. Let me –” He’s not entirely sure what he’s saying, he’s not listening because Billy makes a greed-hot sound and arches up against him, hot and sweet.

Frank almost knocks the bottle off the bedside table and spills a good amount in the ocean of cotton around them in his uncoordinated haste. Finally, Billy’s wet hand grasps him and pulls him in. “Three, come on.”

And Frank _knows_ Billy’s hands, his long artist’s fingers, and he knows his own hands. Still, he doesn’t hesitate when his fingertips brush against Billy’s hole, open and hot, and pushes three fingers in to the hilt. 

Billy _mewls_. His back arches, his nails dig into Frank’s neck.

Frank feels stupid. His cock throbs, he pushes closer, his hips knock against his own wrist when he instinctively thrusts up, drunk on the way Billy’s pressing against him, the way his body yields for his fingers.

Experimentally, he twists his fingers, spreads them. Billy moans, wraps his right arm around him, sticky palm on his shoulder blade. Frank can taste his sweat on his lips.

He thrusts his fingers into him once, twice, three times, then Billy makes a greedy sound in the back of his throat and pushes at his shoulder. “It’s fine, come on.” He’s slurring a little, his fingers slip on Frank’s skin and really, there’s only so much one can be expected to bear.

He nods, sits up. Knowing that if he’ll give in and look at him now, he won’t be able to think clearly, he looks off to the side quickly, then pauses a moment to gather his thoughts. Not that it’s appreciated, considering he gets a kick to the hip for his troubles. “What?”

In lieu of an answer, Frank puts a hand on Billy’s ankle to still it, then leans over the side of the bed to get a hold of his jeans. When he fishes the condom out of his back pocket, Billy laughs, slides his foot along Frank’s thigh. “Oh, sweetheart, how thoughtful. I wouldn’t have stopped you either way.”

Whatever Billy’s intentions were with those words, they effectively throw Frank right off again. Arousal burns through him and he shivers, blinking spots out of his vision. When he can _see_ again, he flicks his eyes up to catch Billy’s expression.

(Bad decision.)

He looks like he means it, lashes heavy and a slight smile in the corner of his mouth that Frank’s dying to feel against his lips. When their eyes meet, he purrs softly, tilting his head a little, shamelessly putting the bruises Frank left on display. “C’mere, will you?”

Without hesitation, Frank does. The wrapper slips from his slick fingers, but he manages to rip it on the second try. Billy laughs when he wipes his hand on the sheets to get some of the lube off, a soft, gleeful sound. “Look at you,” he sighs when Frank finally touches him, now dry hand gentle-careful on his hipbone. “You’re _sweet_.”

It does something to Frank, pouring liquid heat down his spine and blurring his thoughts as he lines himself up. He doesn’t say it, of course, wouldn’t know how to, but he thinks that –  
It’s not like he has a choice. He’s going slow, ignoring the greed tearing at his insides, and thinks that there’s no other way to treat Billy, is there? No other way to treat someone who’s so gorgeous and graceful, dark eyes and glittering teeth. So hot inside, unbearable even through the condom. 

Sweat stings in Frank’s eyes, he tries to keep his breathing even and go _slow_. He feels like he’s melting, blinded and mute and _stupid_ with pleasure, trembling with the effort of holding still.  
He bottoms out.

Billy exhales, a pleasure-dripping little sigh. Thighs wrapping around Frank’s hips, he melts into the sheets. “ _Fuck._ ” A low, pleased purr. It would be enough in itself, but Billy licks his lips and starts that delighted, slightly slurred speech again. “I knew you’d feel good – You have such a –“ his breathing hitches, “– Such a gorgeous cock, you’ve got no idea. Come on, Frankie, give it to me.”

He trails off, nails digging into Frank’s shoulders and that’s all it takes. Frank shifts his weight a little, biceps are trembling with the effort of holding still, making Billy moan and dig his nails into his shoulders. It gives him the leverage he needs to pull out nearly all the way and thrust back in. A little harder than he’d planned on, self-control slipping. Billy inhales sharply, another hitched breath that breaks off into a delighted moan, fingers back in Frank’s hair. He sounds like he’s about to speak up again, but this time, Frank doesn’t give him the chance. He pulls him in by the hip and finally starts _moving_.

Up until now, he’d barely noticed to badly he needed it, too drunk on Billy’s pleasure to care, but now, he can barely think straight with the intensity of the pleasure that’s pulsing through him. Heat burning in his veins, fogging up his brain. 

He’s impossibly hard, his entire world narrowed down to this, to Billy and his breathy moans and how hot he is around Frank’s cock. The sun is setting, spilling the last traces of light over him. White cotton turns a soft, pink-purple shade and Billy’s painted in gold and pink. It catches in his lashes, on the wet shine of his lower lip, turning his flush a sweet wine-pink and the fresh bruises on his throat a delicate shade of violet.  
He doesn’t look real, head tilted back, lashes lowered. He looks like a dream, so gorgeous that Frank’s stomach clenches with arousal and his hands shake.

Helpless, he puts more power behind his thrusts, watches in awe how Billy’s gold-tipped lashes flutter. His voice breaks on his next moan and Frank can feel his pulse in his cock.

Mindless greed overcomes him. He changes his angle a little, dips lower and he’s aware that he’s putting more strain on his lower back like that, but –

The sound Billy makes barely sounds _human_. His back arches, his feet slip over the sheets. Where he’d been languid-sweet before, he’s writhing now, fingernails digging into Frank’s shoulders, fisting a hand into the sheets. 

He’s getting progressively louder, a tangled mess of moans and sighs, until Frank dimly wonders about the open window, and whether his moans are audible in the alley below. For some reason, that does it for Frank, the fact that Billy doesn’t bother holding back, that he’s melting into unrestrained hedonism. 

(And, maybe, possibly, also the thought that Billy _can’t_ stay quiet, that Frank’s giving him exactly the kind of treatment he deserves)

He growls, low in his throat, and really puts his back into it, drunk on the way Billy clenches around him. It’s five strokes, maybe seven, and Billy starts shaking. His moans turn soft again, breathless, helpless mewls and Frank knows he’s close.

He reaches between them to wrap a hand around Billy’s cock. It throbs in his palm and Billy makes a low sound that has Frank’s mouth watering again.

They’re closer now with how Frank’s shifted his weight onto one arm and the heat builds between them. Frank can hear the soft whine in every one of Billy’s inhales and the scent of rose-drenched sandalwood seeps through him. His cock aches and he squeezes Billy, knowing that he’s not going to last much longer.

It’s sloppy, his brain too pleasure-drunk to properly coordinate his strokes with his thrusts, too occupied with the sounds Billy’s making. Still, it seems to be enough, because Billy trembles, fingernails digging into Frank’s shoulders, and comes.

And Frank’s of the opinion that most people look prettiest during their orgasms, but he’s never seen something like this before. Billy’s mouth falls open, his head tips back, he furrows his brows a little, all ebony and roses and ivory. His back arches, pearly-sharp teeth and soft pink mouth, a dreamy-sweet moan. Breath-taking hedonism. Siren.

He tightens around Frank and that’s enough to push him over the edge, too. It’s a surreal experience, sweat burning in his eyes as he fights to keep them open, Billy’s low moan loud in his ears, the scent of sweat and sex and sandalwood flooding his brain. Pleasure pulses through him, he’s breathless, helpless to do anything but drown in it.

He comes to, gasping and shaking, sweat running down his hairline, his spine. Billy wordlessly shoves at his shoulder, still breathing heavily. Frank lifts himself back on his elbow to give him room to catch his breath, and pulls out as gently and carefully as he can before dropping into the sheets next to him. He blinks, willing his eyes to focus again and tries not to be too obvious about the way he’s turning his head to look at him again.

The last traces of the sun have melted away and in the cool, grey-blue tones of the fading light, Billy looks like a silvery dream. Sweat shimmers on his temple, his chest. He’s breathing heavily and finally stretches with a soft, satisfied purr. Long lines, the bruises on his throat stark against pale skin. 

Frank wants to press his mouth to his sternum, kiss a line down to his sharp hipbones. Or up to his jaw, maybe. His mouth.

Instead, he clears his throat. Not that it helps with how fucked his voice is. “We should do this again.”

Billy blinks his eyes open, black in the low light. He laughs, voice rough, pearly canines. “Fuck, man. Give us a minute, will you?”

Frank shakes his head, leans in a little. “Not now, just in general.”

At that, Billy hums, relaxing back into the sheets with an expression of pure contempt. “Yeah, sure.” He reaches out, running a hand through Frank’s hair in a gesture of easy, thoughtless affection. “I fucking knew it, by the way. Knew you’d be good. Fucking build for it, are you?” With that, he pulls him in, presses a kiss to his lax mouth. “I’m taking the first shower.”

Before Frank can reply, he’s gotten up, grace and strength, and makes his way to the en suite. The shadows have deepened, blurring the corners of the room. Frank falls back into waves of cotton and watches as Billy sinks into the darkness, a shimmer of pale skin in liquid black. He licks his lips and tastes sweat, saltwater.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly - thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> And also thanks to [frank-g-castle](https://frank-g-castle.tumblr.com/) for listening to me whine and cry and moan about this.
> 
> This was supposed to go up on Monday, but now we're here. I am genuinely very upset about being this late tbh. But here it is. I finished it and now I have to kick it out of my brain.
> 
> But to get to the actual notes:  
> They don't know each other that well in this (and don't ask me about timelines or anything, I really didn't put much (or any) thought into how that would make sense), so I feared it might come off as Billy being malicious or manipulating with all the Siren talk and the murderous connotations of that. However, that wasn't really the intention. I think Frank feels more than he thinks, and he can most likely tell that Billy is a dangerous creature - but that's more of a turn-on than anything else.
> 
> And since they're not closee in that regard yet, he can't read Billy that well, either. But let's just say that if you slow it down, you can pinpoint the moment Billy falls in love, too. And let's make that clear once more: Billy's a hedonist (and I honestly just wrote this because I wanted to indulge myself and think about Billy having fun in bed), but he's not really ill-spirited towards Frank. On the contrary - he's stupidly into him as well.  
> They're both horny idiots.
> 
> That's all I can really think of for now, so as always: I'm not a native speaker and I'm very sorry if it shows.
> 
> Once more - thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it! :) And if you did, consider leaving a heart or maybe even a comment, if you'd like :'')  
> You can also find me on [tumblr!](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Have a wonderful day & stay safe <3


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